Armada

main battle group, which consisted largely of the transport and auxiliary vessels, while de Recalde commanded the rearguard.

‘We are near Plymouth?’ Nathaniel asked, indicating the darkness beyond the larboard flank of the Armada.

‘Yes, it is about eight leagues north-west of here,’ Evardo replied, and with regret he thought of the missed opportunity to blockade the English fleet. On the day the storm had abated the bulk of the Armada, including most of the fighting ships, had found themselves within striking distance of Plymouth. The comandantes of the vanguard, Evardo amongst them, had taken zabras to de Leiva’s ship, La Rata Encoronada, expecting to receive orders to attack but instead they were told to take in sail and wait for the forty or so stragglers to rejoin the fleet.

Afterwards it was rumoured that both de Leiva and de Recalde had advocated an immediate surprise attack but Medina Sidonia had dismissed their arguments, strictly adhering to King Philip’s explicit orders that the Armada’s primary mission was to support Parma’s crossing, not defeat the English fleet. His general order to take in sail had delayed their advance up the Channel by twenty-four hours.

Nathaniel looked in the direction Evardo had indicated. He had come to appreciate the commander’s company on the long voyage from Lisbon. The Spaniard was a driven man, completely obsessed with victory over the English Crown forces. On this common ground alone the two of them had formed a professional alliance. It was as much as Nathaniel was willing to concede and he peered into the darkness, hoping to catch sight of some light on land.

His first glimpse of the storm-lashed Isles of Scilly had left him with a growing desire to gaze upon the mainland of England. He had felt a similar yearning almost a year before when he had first set foot in England after eighteen years, but now so much had changed. Nathaniel still hoped the Spanish would defeat the English forces and dethrone Elizabeth but he no longer acknowledged Spain’s right to control England after that victory. He had believed that the bonds of faith outweigh the bonds of nationality. De Torres had taught him that not all Catholics shared this conviction.

When Nathaniel had access to the higher echelons of power in Spain he had dreamed of high office in the newly liberated, Catholic England. Now he realized all he could hope for was the restoration of his lands and his title. With Spain as his ally these were within his grasp. But Spain could not give him back his honour and his family.

As an Englishman his honour would be found in ensuring that after his country was free from the plague of Protestantism it would not be dominated by a foreign power. As a father he did not know how he could bridge the gulf between him and his son. Their loyalties were incompatible, although he was beginning to realize that in many ways he was seeking what Robert had already found.

He looked to the grey light of the pre-dawn on the eastern horizon. There was every chance the coming of day would bring the onslaught of battle. Nathaniel wished it so.

Robert stood on the fo’c’sle as the illusory light of the pre-dawn gave way to the first rays of the rising sun. He had been on the quarterdeck when the call had been given, a frantic shout that spoke of the lookout’s disbelief. Robert had immediately rushed forward, wishing to see the sight without obstruction.

What he saw defied his every experience. His mouth opened in silent awe as he gazed upon the host that was the Spanish fleet. The ships were of every hue and province, of the Mediterranean and Atlantic. No sooner was Robert’s attention captivated by a single ship than another, greater vessel, caught his eye. His mind echoed stories told to him as a child by his adopted father, of great battles and mighty fleets, of Lepanto and Salamis, of Actium and Cape Ecnomus. Robert knew he was witnessing a sight that would surely be remembered in history.

A shouted command on a nearby ship returned Robert’s wits and he spun around to his own crew. ‘All hands, battle stations! Tops’ls and top gallants, ho! Lookouts to the tops and sprit!’

The crew of the Retribution exploded into frantic activity at Robert’s commands. Men spilled out from the lower decks and ran to the rigging. The gun-ports slammed open and on Larkin’s command the cannons were run out. Robert went quickly to the quarterdeck where Seeley and Miller were waiting for him. He issued terse orders to both and they moved away to command the crew, giving Robert another opportunity to study the Spanish fleet, this time with a tactical eye. He smiled.

The number of English ships waiting in the lee of Rame Head had reached a tipping point soon after the Retribution had joined them, and in the darkness of the small hours Howard had given the command to sally out. The ships at hand had sailed beam-reach on a southerly course, right across the expected approach of the Spanish Armada. The remainder, who had yet to warp out of Plymouth, had taken a different course to act as a diversionary force; tacking along the coastline as far west as dawn would take them.

The Retribution had sailed with Howard. Robert had spent the entire time on deck, never daring to go below, constantly expecting to see the running lights of the Armada looming out of the darkness. As the command was given to turn westerly and then northerly he had begun to believe that the incredible feat they had set out to achieve had been met. His first sight of the Spanish Armada had thrust that belief from his mind, but it now returned to him in full force.

Howard had done it; the English fleet were to windward of the Spanish. They had taken the weather gauge, the all important advantage of being able to approach or withdraw from the enemy at will. Robert felt the first stirrings of blood lust within him as his ship came up to battle tempo. They were ready to attack. Robert was waiting only for the order to advance from the flagship, but in those brief moments of pause the sight of the Spanish fleet arrested him once more. The massive formation of ships began to transform right before his eyes.

Evardo’s gaze shifted continuously as the Santa Clara turned beneath him, his mind at once on the fleet of English ships to windward, on the trailing line of enemy ships to the north along the coastline, and on the dexterous manoeuvres of the ships surrounding his galleon as the Armada redeployed to Medina Sidonia’s orders. Above him the rigging was alive with men. The shouted commands of Mendez filled his ears and in the periphery of his vision he checked the identity of the ships closest to the Santa Clara with the plan of deployment.

‘We are in position, Comandante,’ Mendez said close at hand. Evardo nodded his approval of the sailing captain’s flawless control of the galleon.

The Armada was now in combat formation, a massive crescent with the wings trailing back in the direction of the enemy threat. The larger ships were sailing in tight formation, with the dispatch carrying feluccas and zabras darting between them, feeding communications to every point in the fleet. De Leiva’s vanguard had become the left wing with de Recalde’s rearguard on the opposing landward wing. Medina Sidonia continued to command the vulnerable centre, allowing him to dictate the direction and speed of the entire fleet, secure in the knowledge that any enemy vessel that attempted to approach the vital transport ships would have to run the gauntlet of the protective wings. The Armada could now defend itself without halting the main battle group.

Evardo brought his captains aft to the poop deck to study the English fleet.

‘The masthead lookout estimates close to eighty ships to windward, Comandante.’

‘We should have bottled them up at Plymouth when we had the chance,’ Alvarado growled. ‘Now they are loose in their own home waters.’

‘His majesty did not give us leave for such actions,’ Evardo said, fixing Alvarado with a hard stare. Despite his own reservations he was angered that one of his captains should openly question the orders of his superiors.

‘There are at least thirty more sail there,’ Mendez pointed to the coastline.

The line of English ships slowly tacking into the wind on the flank of de Recalde’s distant rearguard was poised to join the main enemy fleet and Evardo’s brow creased as he tried to think what additional threat they posed.

‘They are fine sailors,’ Mendez remarked grudgingly.

Evardo spun around.

‘Then we are well matched,’ he replied, a hard edge to his voice. He looked to the faces of his captains, seeing in each the grim expressions of seasoned fighters.

‘Ready your men, mis capitanes.’

Evardo turned his attention to the line of his ship and its position at the outer end of the vanguard wing. They were ready to receive the enemy and Evardo closed his eyes in prayer. He called on God to keep him strong, to give him the courage to endure until the victory had been won, and to protect his ship and her crew. They were in the service of the Almighty and Evardo’s gaze climbed to the Armada’s standard trailing out from the head of the